He's back I'm back We're all back!
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: ANOTHER reunion story. Because I can. Fiddleford finds Stanley. UMMM Some funny bits. At least I thought so. Uhhh Stanford and Stanley are both a bit angsty. So like humor and angst. I've been gone for so long! Hope ya'll enjoy. T for future stuff? Also because Stanley is a criminal but nothing's really happened yet.
1. How's this for an unrealistic reunion?

**I'M BAAAAAACK. THIS IS AN AU WHERE (AFTER FIDDLEFORD LEFT) STANFORD REALIZED fidds was TOTALLY RIGHT and they worked on destroying the portal together. Stanford did a lot of apologizing hehe. **

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**1975 Oregon, Molalla. **

"This weather is gonna be the death o' me," Fiddleford complained, snuggling deeper into his jacket. The wind around him was loud and sharp, cutting through his light coat. He muttered as he whipped out a piece of paper from his pocket, reading off letters under his breath.

_S-t-n-l-y-M-b-l _

He pushed the paper back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. He had been searching for hours now, driving around town and walking around parking lots. For the first time in _four__ years_, they had gotten a lead. A real, solid lead. Stanford pines- Fiddleford's friend (and technically his boss)- had been ecstatic. He had rushed out the door with nothing but his trench-coat, physically incapable of wasting any more time than he deemed necessary.

Although Fiddleford's reaction had been much more subdued, he was no less excited. Their search had gone on for far longer than either of them had anticipated, and it had put a toll on both their hopes.

It seemed Stanley Pines was _very_ good at what he did.

Fiddleford, for the first five or so years of his and Stanford's friendship, had no idea who Stanley was, or that he even existed. Stanford wasn't forthcoming when it came to family matters. In fact, when Fiddleford first found out, it had been completely on accident. He was looking something up in one of Stanford's "science journals" when he noticed three small words, lightly scratched over with ink.

_I miss Stanley. _

Fiddleford was curious, of course. And that's how they began the search for the elusive twin brother of Stanford Pines. The full story of how it began is a long and arduous one, so let's just say it took a lot of arguing, coffee, and semi-uncomfortable heart to hearts before either of them came to an agreement.

At first, Stanford seemed...reluctant. But as the first few weeks went by, it became his obsession. That sounds weird, but obsession is pretty normal for Stanford.

And that's how Fiddleford wound up here, in the middle of a parking lot, freezing his butt off, _at night, _looking for a car that may or may not be the so humbly named _"Stanley Mobile"._

"Stanferd, I hope yer havin' better luck than me." Fidds kicked at the ground, turning to head back to his car. He knew he was getting grumpy, but to be fair, he had a good reason.

"One more parking lot, Stanferd. Then I'm picking ya up and we're goin' _out_ ta eat, 'cause I ain't cookin'."

Oh, did I mention they've been living in the same house? #FlatmatesForever.

Jumping into his truck, Fidds started the engine, smiling in relief as the heater kicked on. He rolled out onto the street and began driving to the last location they had been given.

Please forgive my interrupting, but I've realized I once again skipped out on giving you all important insight. The "solid lead" they had been given, was a list of street names and buildings the profile of Stanley's car had last been spotted at. To summarize, Fiddleford had a lot of friends.

Stanford did not.

...

...

...poor human.

The places listed were fairly close together, but still long enough to warrant a drive, even if it weren't below freezing outside. Fiddleford rode for nearly five minutes down an empty road before finding the lot.

Fiddleford turned off his truck, leaving the keys in the ignition. His door locks were faulty anyway, so there was almost no chance of getting locked out of his car.

He stared into the nearly empty lot and sighed. His eyes were tired, but with his glasses, perfectly functional. He blinked as the wind hit him in the face.

There was one car.

One stinkin' car.

He squinted.

It was a red car.

He sighed again. Of course, it was a red car. Of course, the universe was going to get his hopes up. Fiddleford wanted nothing more than for his friends to be happy.

And Stanford Pines was _never_ happy.

Perhaps that's why he never had any friends...other than Fiddleford.

Fiddleford _knew_ that with his twin, Stanford might be happy. Maybe. After Fiddleford got the truth out of him, Stanford never shut up about Stanley. He often told stories to Fiddleford about their adventures as children. Their plans. Back when Stanford pines was happy.

So, in an effort to make his friend happy, Fiddleford wrapped his arms around his chest, tensing against the cold, and made his way toward the stupid stinkin' red car, the license plate number still fresh in his mind.

Now, you may be wondering why they were looking for the car and not the human. Well, wherever the car is, the human must be near, right? I mean, unless you leave it at an airport. But that's beside the point.

Fiddleford got about twenty feet closer to the car in question when a loud noise made him jump. He jerked around, shock running through him.

His truck was driving away.

Without him.

He yelled out, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. He began running, the cold be darned, that was his truck driving away!

"GIT BACK 'ERE YA-" Fiddleford cut off, panting. He grabbed at his side and swayed slightly. Was he dehydrated? It was possible. The cold is just as (if not more so) dehydrating as heat is. (And that my friends, is a _fact. _Look it up and drink plenty! Of water. Don't drink alcohol kiddos. That's bad.)

Fiddleford growled, his teeth clenching when another loud growl echoed his own. He jerked around, _again,_ to find that the red car was zooming toward him. His eyes widened as he stumbled away from the it's-moving-too-fast-and-coming-right-at-me-vehicle.

He fell to the ground, grunting as his back hit the pavement. The car swung around, stopping right in front of him.

"Hey, kid. That guy just take ya car?" A man asked. The voice was deep, but the shadows kept Fiddleford from seeing his face.

Fiddleford blinked. "How didja-"

"Get in. We'll get 'em. I owe that man a visit," The man growled. By the anger in his tone, Fiddleford had a sneaking suspicion this 'visit' wasn't your average social call. Instead of getting in, he backed away.

"I'm sorry, who are ya-"

"DO YOU WANT YOUR CAR BACK!?" The man yelled. Fiddleford jumped up, nodding hurriedly.

"Then- GET IN!" For a moment the man went quiet, then added," I ain't gonna hurt ya." As if he realized he was scaring Fiddleford, who was indeed scared out of his mind.

Fiddleford ran around the front of the car, jumping into the passenger seat. He crinkled his nose. The car smelled of dirty laundry and stale beer. He didn't have time to dwell on that, however, before the man stomped on the gas, racing out of the parking lot and into the street.

Fiddleford clung to his seatbelt, his body getting thrown around by the car's sharp movements.

_This can't be legal._

The man didn't even seem to notice Fiddleford was there now that they were moving. He was focused entirely on the road.

Fiddleford's eyes combed the street ahead for his beloved truck, but it was nowhere to be seen. He glanced at his maybe hero, maybe kidnapper, in confusion. The man seemed to know exactly where he was going.

"Where're we-" Fiddleford began. The car made a sudden left turn into an alley, throwing Fiddleford into the door, knocking his breath away. It was only when Fiddleford groaned that the man glanced at him.

"Don't throw up in my baby," He said, right as he stomped on the brakes, Throwing Fiddleford forward. He only managed to groan again.

The man left the keys in the ignition and tapped Fiddleford's shoulder. "I said no puking. But here's the plan, and you better stick to it if ya want your car back."

Fiddleford looked up, nodding. He could barely think through the shock. The man seemed appeased.

"Good. I'm going to go in there." He gestured to a door to the left that sat so covered in shadows, Fiddleford wondered how he knew it was there. "Then," he continued, "I'm gonna drive out with ya truck, and you're gonna follow me."

Fiddleford blinked. "Wait a momen'-"

"Don't scratch her." The man slid out of the car, leaving the door open behind him so Fiddleford could sit in there. He sat still for an entire, precious minute, his mind trying to sort through what was happening.

_Red car- smelly, my truck...my poor truck... a man is in, why was a man in the red car, just sitting there!?_

Fiddleford frowned until he realized he was supposed to be a sorta-not-really getaway driver. He swallowed a lump in his throat as he clambered out of the passenger seat and behind the wheel.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

_..._

The next five minutes were the longest and also the fastest five minutes of his entire life.

As soon as he closed the driver door, a loud bang sounded from behind him. He screamed as he kicked on the engine and pulled into reverse, driving backward out of the alleyway as fast as mechanically possible.

(I know, I know, the correct phrase is "humanly possible" But that just doesn't make any sense. A very healthy human can run 28 mph, faster than a hippo, and slower than a cheetah. But a car!? A car can go- alright I can see you don't actually care about accuracy. Allow me to return to the story.)

The tires squealed as he emerged from the alley. He threw the car into forward drive and looked up in time to see his truck-

_The man actually did it. _

His truck once again driving away from him, Fiddleford hit the gas, heading right behind it. For a brief moment, Fiddleford grinned. His blood was pumping with adrenaline. He almost wanted to drive faster.

Almost.

Watching his truck with a semi-blind eagles eye, Fiddleford found himself slowing down as his truck did the same. He nearly missed it when his truck made a sharp turn back into the parking lot this entire venture started in.

_Did my car really get stolen twice? _

Fiddleford slowed to a stop, parking right beside his truck. He watched as the man stepped out, keys in hand. Fiddleford quickly did the same.

"Hey, kid. This one it?"

Fiddleford glanced at the car and nodded, allowing himself a small smile. "Indeed it is Mr..." He looked back at the man, and with a start, realized he could finally see the guy's features.

The man had long brown hair, stubble all along his jaw and wore a large, torn jacket. His outline in the dark was skinny and smaller than Fiddleford had anticipated. But not so small that he wasn't way bigger than Fiddleford, who was 5 ft. 4 in.

"Uh, just call me Stan." The man- Stan -muttered. Fiddleford's heart stopped as he nodded, his hands shaking.

"Ah, well mah name's Fiddleferd. Um, Thank ya, Stan. Fer- Fer yer help." Fiddleford started walking backward, trying to glimpse the man's license plate in the dim light. The man didn't seem to care much about Fiddleford's strange behavior, laughing. His laugh was deep, his voice raspy. He sounded like a man who indulged in one too many cigarettes.

"Are ya kiddin' me!? Ya gave me the perfect excuse to tell off that good-for-nothin' son of a gun." He walked back up to Fiddleford, holding out the nervous man's truck keys. "I think these belong ta ya."

Fiddleford nodded, handing back _Stan's_ keys at the same time. As he did so, he squinted at the dirt covered plate on the back of _Stan's _car. Stan raised a brow.

"Ya really tryin' to get my license plate? Woulda thought you'd be a bit more 'preciative."

Fiddleford jumped, his trembling becoming visible, even in the darkened parking lot. "Nonono! I- I'm just, well I was-"

The man just stared, waiting. Fiddleford swallowed.

Now, Fiddleford always stuck with the truth. It was like his...thing. In school, if he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing (which was almost never) he would take the punishment, no defense, no lies to cover it up. It just wasn't in his nature.

He knew it was a weakness in this world. He didn't expect everyone to be like him, but that didn't stop him from sticking with the facts, no matter what.

And perhaps this was a good thing.

Because of course, this would've never of happened otherwise.

"That's actually why I- why I came here." Fiddleford's hands twitched, waiting for _Stan's_ reaction.

"What?" He took a threatening step closer, glaring at Fiddleford with unblinking eyes. "Are you sayin'...ya came to this parking lot...to read my license plate?"

Fiddleford nodded.

Stan's face had deadpanned. "Elaborate."

"Mah friend had been looking for his brother for four or-or five years and I've been helpin' him 'n I just thought- your car looked like the one in the picture-"

Stan growled, "What picture?"

His hands still shaking, he pulled out a faded black and white photograph of a young boy and his car. Stan snatched it up immediately, making Fiddleford flinch.

"Stanford."

Fiddleford looked up, his tremors suddenly stopping with shock. "What?" He asked, completely sure he misheard.

Stan shook the photograph into his face, Stan's eyes looking brighter with every passing second. "STANFORD! That's his name, isn't it!? The name of your friend!?"

Now, Fiddleford didn't know this man very well, but he would say that this _Stan _was almost _gleeful._

To be honest, his own heart had been skipping beats since the totally great action scene I wrote.

"Yer- ya know Stanferd!?" Fiddleford yelped, his hands shaking again, but not with fear. He grinned as Stan began to laugh.

_Did I really do it? Did I just- _

"Know him!? I'm RELATED to that nimrod!" Stan yelled into the air before suddenly sobering. He sighed. "I'm related to that nimrod." He did a one-eighty on his heel, falling against the car behind him.

Fiddleford couldn't believe it. It was just so improbable! He needed to- _ I need to tell Stanford. _

He approached Stan slowly, his brow furrowing as he did so. "Wha's wrong? Yer Stanley, aren't ya?"

Stan glanced at Fiddleford with a sad smile. "Yeah. And hey, it was nice of ya to try and find me for him, but trust me, he doesn't want to see me." He handed back the photo with a tired sigh. "He made that clear years ago."

Fiddleford stared at the photo for a moment before shoving it in his pockets. "Wha' are ya sayin'? Tha' ya won't come?"

"There's no point."

"O' course there's a point! Stanferd's the one who started the search for ya! I've only been helpin'!"

Stan stopped on his way to the other side of the car. He shook his head, turning around again. "No, no, that's not possible. I suppose he told you what happened? Or ya found out reading his journal or somethin'?"

Fiddleford looked slightly affronted, "He told me when I asked who Stanley was. It's a long story."

"Then summarize it," Stan grunted.

Fiddleford blinked, clearing his throat. "Ah, well he wrote somethin' down in his-"

"So ya _did _read his journal?" Stan barked. Fiddleford glared.

"His _scientific research journal he gave me permission to read, _yes. He wrote, 'I miss Stanley'". So I asked who this Stanley was an' he told me everythin'. Well, after I told 'im he was a moron fer not tellin' me sooner." He finished.

Stan snorted. "Why, how long did it take 'im?

"Five years. An' we've been searching for four or more."

"Whoa." Stan chuckled sadly. "You meet him in college or somethin'?" He asked.

Fiddleford nodded, pushing his hands into his pockets as the cold had numbed them. Stan seemed to notice. "Cold?"

"It's below freezin' out 'ere! How're ya not?"

Stan just shook his head. "You get used to it. I guess you'd better get back. It was nice to meet ya- uh...Fid-somethin'?"

"Fiddleferd. An' I know what yer tryin' ta do. I ain't leaving here without ya." Fiddleford declared, squaring his shoulders.

His attempt at authority seemed to amuse Stan, who just kept walking. "See ya Fiddleford." He said.

"No!" Fiddleford ran, stopping short of the driver's door where Stanley was standing, his hand on the handle. "He's not- Stanferd's not alrigh'. Please." Fiddleford looked at Stan pleadingly, "I can't let ya leave. Jus' come an' talk to 'im? He doesn't even know yer alive!"

Stan looked at Fiddleford like he was crazy. Ruffling his hair with his hands, Stan laughed. "You're a really determined guy, ya know that?"

"Mother said it was mah best quality."

Stan rubbed his hand over his face, sighing. "How long did you say you've...both been searchin' for... me?"

Fiddleford stood taller. "Four years."

The information seemed to finally process and Stan's eyes widened.

"Four years huh?" He grinned, making Fiddleford take a step back.

Stan opened the car door. "I suppose I'm overdue on my family reunion, aren't I?"

...

After telling Stan that they didn't actually live in Molalla, but in a small town two hours away, Stan dutifully sat in his car as Fiddleford phoned his friend. Stan could see the excited look on the tiny guy as he sat in his disproportionately large truck. Supposedly telling his friend, and Stan's brother, that their mission was complete.

Stan began to mutter beneath his breath, "The mission is complete Stanford. I found the freaky homeless man. Let's take him home to pity him! Yay!_" _

He had never been very good at lip reading.

Stan wasn't exactly...excited to see his brother. Why would he be? He spent nine long years on the streets, _knowing _his own twin brother despised him.

If Stanford had been looking for him, it wasn't because Stanford missed him. It couldn't be. If anything, Stanford wanted closure. And Stan knew that closure probably meant a hit to the face.

Stanford had never been very good at forgiving. He was more likely to swear revenge than anything else. That little Fidds guy didn't seem to get that. Stanford, sad that he was gone? Bullcrap. According to Fiddleman himself, Stanford went a whole half decade without even talking about him.

But Fiddlefaddle was so...small. And determined. jnaoenf aoiehfcaiojfn {key smash to filter my emotions over Fiddleford}. What was he supposed to do?

_What if you're wrong? What if he's telling the truth- _

_No. Impossible. Stanford doesn't...couldn't __care._

Hearing a knock on the window, he looked up to see Fiddcraddle waving brightly from the other side. He rolled down the window, putting on another smile for the happy-even-though-he's-in-a-dark-parking-lot-with-a-criminal guy.

"Good news?" Stan asked.

"Depends," Fiddleford smiled, "Ya hungry?"

Stan's grin became slightly more genuine. "Starved."

(He wished that was a lie.)

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**AND THAT'S IT FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER. I got tired. I ALSO REALLY WANTED TO POST LOVE YOU GUYS YOU'RE THE BEST JIEOCNHIJCNWO IEJFJCWEFEOW FNESNFKNSKDNF. As you can seeejorfhnaewojcaoiejfoaewji I'm insane. If it doesn't make sense it's because I was possessed at times. GOOD BYYYYYYE. **


	2. Exposition is Exposition-y

**KEYSMASH OF EMOTIONS JFOIEWHFOEIJSMOIFJCEOIFJ Tw: Stan Pines.  
**

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Stanley Pines.

It's hard to describe the emotions connected with that name. For Stanford Pines, the name meant everything, and it meant nothing. He had to wonder why he ignored the issue his brother posed for so long. Anger? Probably. Fear? Definitely. Yet there was something else, something that ate away at him, that _had_ been eating at him since that terrible night.

He wished he knew what it was. It was all so...needlessly complicated, this 'emotions' lark.

Fiddleford on the other hand, his emotions over the name were clear and simple. Excitement. Stanley Pines was a new person- a doppelganger of his very own best friend. Admittedly, he knew they wouldn't be much alike, personality wise, but still! There was someone out there who was just _waiting_ to be befriended and reunited with his family.

Ah, Fiddleford. The man with the heart of gold. AEhfewoicjawoecmjapejcap {No, I will not stop, I love all three of my weird boys. Let me keysmash my emotions away, darn it!}

Now, one feels like that would be the end of this bit, but it isn't. There are many people who experience feeling at the name "Stanley Pines". Including- wait for it- Stanley Pines himself.

He gripped the wheel tighter, trying to keep his eyes open as he trailed the truck in front of him. He had been sleeping when the roar of the truck in question had violently ripped him from rest's sweet arms. He had hit his head on the roof of his car as he jerked awake, spotting a man running after a car.

There was only one reason someone chased after a car in this part of town. And his name is Charlie Chopper. Sound like a stupid name? That's because it is. Thanks for noticing.

Charlie owned a chop shop, simply disguised right under everyone's eyes as a simple garage. The only way you knew Charlie Chopper was if you worked for him. Unfortunately, Stanley was one of those people. Under normal circumstances, Stan wouldn't mind hotwiring a few cars, but Charlie had a very blurred line on what was right and wrong. He would make his 'employees' stalk cars all over the neighborhood, picking and choosing the ones he wanted. Then, they would forcibly take the car at the first opportunity. If it could be taken without force, fine. But Charlie wasn't going to stop for a woman getting out of her car. He and his cronies would just- knock the person out of the way.

It _disgusted_ Stan. He had seen a permit driver, just a kid, thrown onto the concrete. The kid's head hit the ground, bleeding out. Despite his co-worker's warnings, Stan called for an ambulance as soon as he could.

Aaaaand that's how you get on Charlie Chopper's bad side. Stanley left quickly after that.

I suppose that's enough elucidation on that. You can see why Stanley decided to help a stranger now, don't you? It wasn't just out of the goodness of his heart. There's no room for sentimentality on the streets.

His foot pressed harder on the gas at the thought of his old boss. It was infuriating! Stan wasn't the greatest guy- but he had to draw the line somewhere, didn't he?

The car was about speeding up, getting uncomfortably close to the truck in front of him. What was his name again? Fiddscrumble? Now that was someone Stan could just- enjoy being around. You just had to look at the guy and _see _how honest he was.

It was something Stanley missed. Being upfront and honest. There isn't room for much of that on the streets either.

He ran the scene over in his mind.

_Trust me, he doesn't want to see me. _

_Wha's wrong? Yer Stanley, aren't ya? _

Hearing his name again had been a shock. He favored 'Stan' with people he never intended to see again. Using his nickname, it kept him feeling more...centered. Otherwise, it was all pseudonyms and fake ID's.

He was still trying to decide if it was a good shock or not. It was hard. On one end, Stanley Pines was someone he'd abandoned long ago, someone he considered too much of a failure to be of any importance. On the other...Hal Forrester wasn't much better on the I'm-doing-well-and-do-not-have-to-resort-to-crime, scale.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the Fiddlemeddle's truck swung into a parking lot.

_The Beaver's Bed and Breakfast? _Stan parked the car, placing his keys into his coat pocket. Leave it to his brother to find the least desirable hotel in all of Oregon. He gave the shady building a grim glare.

_I'm gonna die here, I just know it._

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** Awe, I know. Ya'll love my chapters of pure exposition that barely further the plot. MM YES, I AM CATGIRL THIS IS AMAZING. **

** Everyone else, ya'll lovely long-time readers and reviewer's THANKS. I would separately PM ya'll saying that but I'm being really...anti-social at the moment. Including just...typing directly at people who can actually 'hear' me and respond. ANYWAY THANKS FOR EXISTING SORRY THIS IS JUST EXPOSITION. Have a skit I just thought of. **

**Ford: Stanley..._STANLEY! _**

**Stan *running into the room*: WHAT! WHAT'S WRONG!? **

**Ford *Sullen*: We ran out of bread. **

**Stan: ...What. **

**Ford: WE RAN out of BREAD. *Gestures to the cupboard, completely bare of any bread.* **

**Stan *narrows eyes*: Who are you and where's my brother. **

**Fiddleford: Ah, there you both are. Fiddleford, what did you do with experiment 78? *adjusts tiny glasses* I know you like reaching the top shelf- but I can't handle everything looming over me. You must despise being short.**

**Stan *hasn't been around long enough to know what experiment they're talking about*: ?! ? WHAT IS HAPPENING.**

**Fiddleford in Stanford's body, sulking. : We ran out of bread and I'm going to be short again. **


End file.
